


ALL ROADS LEAD TO FAUX BISTROS

by countertop



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Based on a Conan Gray Song, Dancer Kuroo Tetsurou, Light Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Photographer Tsukishima Kei, Pining, Side Kuroo/Yaku, Slice of Life, Very messy depiction of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26487844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countertop/pseuds/countertop
Summary: (Why are you only staring now, Tetsurou?)
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29
Collections: Luna & Noir: KuroTsuki Fest 2020





	ALL ROADS LEAD TO FAUX BISTROS

1\. 

Every Wednesday, they have meetings. They drink cheap coffee and eat mediocre pasta at their favorite restaurant--- a faux bistro with the fastest wifi within a three mile radius of their university. They stay there for two hours. 

Kei calls them meetings. Kuroo calls them dates. They agree it’s the same difference. Sometimes there are moments where Kei finds himself staring off in space, except this space is a breath too specific, too near, in the moment above the soft curve of Kuroo’s cheek. In other words, he finds himself in danger. 

A month before their last nationals Yamaguchi asked him about his college plans, and Kei said something about moving to the city, and Yamaguchi said ah, in quiet understanding, but not before asking _oh, who do you_ know _there_ , and he whispered _Kuroo_ , like it was a secret.

Kuroo studies biochemistry in Tokyo. Kei pretends he knew this by chance when Yamaguchi asked _wow, how did you know he was studying there,_ as if he didn’t spend roughly half the nights of his senior year on Skype, listening to Kuroo memorize synthesis patterns and chemical pathways. He remembers his nights going something along the lines of: 

_hey best friend [1:08 am]_

we’re not best friends [1:08 am]

_okay best friend_ , _sleep well! [1:09 am]_

When he got accepted to a five year program for pharmacy somewhere in Tokyo, he announced to his friends that he was going to live with his best friend somewhere far away. 

Tokyo demanded of him a ridiculously expensive way of living--- namely: sky high tuition fees, an absurd amount of laboratory expenses, and barely manageable necessities. After his graduation Kuroo had offered him the extra room in his apartment, a small space fitted with a window almost too large for it. Kei took this without much preamble but with silent thanks and a promise to treat his new roommate to coffee every week. 

They were not, by any means, rich students. Both of them had generous parents who sent allowances every month and worked just enough odd jobs on the side to pay for housing and college fees. They both agreed eating out was a luxury, except on Wednesdays, and the occasional Friday parties. Sometime halfway through his first semester, almost in comedic horror, Kei catches himself looking forward to Wednesdays. 

Tsukishima fiddles with his camera after their waiter leaves, and only spares a glance at Kuroo, who looks at him like he’s back in his second year of high school, watching his nutrient agar on the hot plate. (Like he’s someone to watch over, carefully. Something not to be missed.) That said, Kei still relaxes in his gaze, and takes a photo of Kuroo’s hand. 

“Your nails look nice.” He fixes his camera settings and clicks away. 

“Thanks,” Kuroo says. He checks his nails, painted bright red. “Should we pass by the grocery after dinner?” 

“Didn’t we go shopping last week?” 

“That was three weeks ago, I think. We should buy more eggs.” Their waiter arrives with their food. Kuroo digs into his vegan puttanesca after waving the waiter thanks. Kei grimaces as the sauce splatters on his letterman jacket and fights the urge to reprimand him gently and wipe it off. Their meetings had no space for tenderness such as that. 

“Hey, Kei,” Kuroo says, reaching for a shrimp on Kei’s plate. He ordered shrimp scampi, after all. “What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” 

“You’re cooking?” Kei passes him another shrimp. “Fries. Eggs. Miso soup, too.” 

Kuroo hums and finishes the last of his pasta. They eat in silence for the most part. Outside there are more lights buzzing past. The door chimes and a couple walks in, settling in the empty table beside theirs. As if on cue one of them reaches out for the other’s hand, and by god, Kei should close his eyes before he gets anymore tempted by the hand on the other side of the table. 

They order another round of coffee. This part, Kei liked the most; it involved a lot of careful glancing, and if he was fast enough, he’d be able to spot the curve of Kuroo’s lips in a tender smile. Kuroo cradles his coffee gently. He brings out his camera. 

“Hey, Tetsurou.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Smile.” 

The waiter drops by and hands them their bill; the bistro breathes. He smiles and Kei, for a moment, allows himself to drown in the unbridled want. Kuroo smiles, and like everything flawless, it feels infinite. Kei takes a photo. It is an endless stream of motion, he thinks, from the crinkle of Kuroo’s eyes to the hair falling into them. 

If he could, he’d take it all. 

2.

Tsukishima Kei, on the rare afternoons that he didn’t have laboratory work that extended past his normal school day, plays at being a photographer. He calls himself a freelancer. Sometimes, he takes commissions. He picked up the camera a week and a half after their last match in nationals, because he fucked up his rotator cuff trying to catch up to Hinata-- which, in hindsight, was a pretty useless path (chasing the sun, while fun, was not kind to his joints and cartilages and bones). There was much of the world to explore beyond the court, he rationalized, and so began the camera work. 

“Hi, I’m Tsukishima Kei. I sent a request to cover your practice today, may I come in?” 

He gets ushered into the building by a freshman, an anthropology student running most of the menial errands for the dance crew. It’s part of the newbie tradition, she shyly explains. She leads him through a long corridor, before knocking and entering through the last door on their right. 

It’s a bright studio. Kei finds Kuroo in the large room easily, although he pretends he hasn’t been looking for him at all. He sets up his camera and tests his settings with a few shots while they dance through their warmups. The situation is like this: Kuroo dances. Kei thinks if he were given a superpower, for just a few seconds, he’d capture the motion of it.

(He was hired to cover the dance crew. If most of the photos were of Kuroo, he pretends it was accidental.)

The thing is, Kei does not believe in happy accidents, even if Bob Ross were to appear before him and tell him so. He believes in mistakes and the tangible world, much like everything else he has photographed. He believes in the mundane as much as the absurd gorgeous. Kuroo is, frighteningly, somehow both. 

Kei meets Yaku that Wednesday afternoon, after the practice ends. 

“Kei!” Kuroo calls out. He pushes through a sea of people. I want to leave, please let me leave, Kei prays in his head. 

“Yes, Kuroo-san?” He forces a smile. Kuroo has an arm slung on someone else’s shoulder, who has a smile that looks annoyed but also impossibly endeared. Ah, Kei thinks, he’s like me. 

“This is Yaku Morisuke. He’s my partner for this season.” 

There’s a lot of nuance to that word, _partner_. There are also a lot of implications to consider, but mostly the fact that _partner_ also meant _significant._ Not for the first time, he wishes he had the chance to be Kuroo’s partner, too.

(Was it selfish to want the assurance that he was, in fact, equally important to Kuroo?)

They do their bows and smiles and some kind of bro-handshake, and Kei excuses himself after all of the customary rituals of meeting someone new (someone luckier than him, to have Kuroo look at them like that). In the end, he consoles himself with the thought that today _is_ a Wednesday. He’ll be the one to have dinner with Kuroo tonight, even though it's only one dinner out of the seven Kuroo spends with someone else. 

There are a few things Kei is fond of photographing, majority of them things in the perpetual afterglow of the afternoon sun and other chance encounters. Except recently these few things have somehow turned into _Kuroo in the afternoon sun_ , _Kuroo and his questionable fashion choices, Kuroo and his new lip ring, Kuroo at breakfast_. A lot of it sounds like a title for a post-modernist caricature of want. 

This is his dilemma, he supposes. He had always enjoyed chasing after the unattainable, like a moron. It just so happens that instead of a sun he is now chasing something he does not know what to make of, but equally unstoppable. 

(In other words, Kuroo Tetsurou is a bright IKEA sign turned neon pink and green. Kuroo Tetsurou is a McDonald’s statue running down the highway at three am. Like a moth to a flame, he follows. In other words, Kuroo Tetsurou is his muse.)

Tsukishima Kei is undeniably fucked.

He realizes this as Kuroo walks into their favorite bistro, half an hour late their usual time. He’s heaving like he just ran a mile, and this leaves Kei somewhat warm inside, makes him feel as if he’s not the only one doing all the chasing.

“Sorry I’m late,” Kuroo huffs out, settling into his chair. “I walked Yaku to his apartment.” 

Kei hums. He picks up his camera again, and looks through all of his shots from today. Kuroo Tetsurou is lovely. There are a thousand reasons for this. He picks his favorite photo and passes his camera to Kuroo. You’re loveliest dancing, he wants to say, the loveliest subject I’ve ever had. 

“I ordered for you, by the way,” Kei murmurs instead, as a greeting. A peace offering. “Chicken pesto.” 

Kuroo looks up from the camera, smiling. He brightens up at _chicken pesto_ , childlike. He positively beams at him and it takes a lot of Kei’s willpower not to flinch. 

“How’d you know I wanted that? You love me too much, Tsukki.” Kuroo teases.

He shrugs. Gut feel, he says. And reaches to get his camera from him. What he doesn’t say is this:

(Yes, I love you too much, almost too much. It’s not just my gut; it so happens that I’m in love with you, and I know you like their vegan puttanesca and chicken pesto the most, and you ordered puttanesca the last time we were here. I know this because you’re second happiest when you’re eating good food. You look second happiest when we’re eating breakfast, too. These are things I know because I see you, Tetsurou. Are you looking at me, too? _Can you?_ )

When their waiter arrives, they say their thanks. Kuroo dives right into his plate of pasta, and Kei softens into a smile. Eat slowly, he admonishes, blushing only slightly when Kuroo looks up at him from his plate. 

“You know, I really like Yaku,” Kuroo says, in between bites of chicken breast. 

“He’s your partner, isn’t he?” Kei pretends nonchalance. You’re happiest with him, idiot. Of course you like him. He shoves a meatball into his mouth. 

“Yeah, but he’s different, Kei,” Kuroo’s eyes glaze over, like he’s thinking of a place better than this. Kei can’t imagine it. “He gets me. We click, you know?”’ 

“Sounds nice, Tetsurou.” Can't I be that, to you? Don't I get you? He doesn’t say this, but he asks for chicken. 

“I think I’ll ask him out soon.” Kuroo laughs. He finishes his meal, but saves a portion for Kei. Kuroo places the chicken and the pasta on Kei's plate. 

This is cruel, Kei thinks. He eats it anyway. 

“You should,” he agrees. The bistro, for the most part, is empty. It houses them and a few other students, each into their own separate corner of the world. It is dark outside, and when Kei glances towards the window, he sees himself, longing torn into his lips. He looks ridiculous. 

“... what do you want, Kei? Tsukki?” 

“Huh?” He blinks. “You were saying?” 

“What drink do you want?” Kuroo waves the menu at him. “I’ll pay.” 

“Just coffee.” Kei murmurs, turning to watching the road outside. Kuroo orders him a macchiato with hazelnut syrup and a slice of cake. Kei wonders when they’d crossed the line between simply ordering coffee and ordering for each other. He also wonders why he has to overthink it like this. They’re friends, after all, who happened to know each others’ coffee orders by heart.

“Should I serenade him?” Kuroo asks. “I don’t want to just ask him out.” 

Kei looks at him. Kuroo has his elbow propped up on the table, chin resting on his palm. Hair curls into his eyes, and he doesn’t stop Kei when he reaches out to brush it aside. He lets Kei’s hand rest by his cheek for a moment longer. 

“Give him something meaningful to you, I guess.” Kei says. If Kuroo notices his hand trembling, he’s thankful he doesn’t say anything. Do they look like friends from the outside? 

“Meaningful?” 

“He has known you since high school, Tetsurou,” He continues tiredly. “He’d appreciate something he knows is important to you.” 

Kuroo nods slowly. He reaches for Kei’s camera on the table, and Tsukishima passes it to him wordlessly. Everything I take is yours, he says in his head, it always has been. 

“How’d you get into this?” Kuroo asks, lifting the camera as he looks through the photos.

“I fucked up my rotator cuff. I went to rehab and met someone there who was obsessed with camera photography. He took photos of hospital food everyday. Two weeks later there were the two of us, taking photos of shitty hospital food.” 

Their coffee arrives. Kei grabs his and nurses it in between his hands, drawing warmth. It’s hard to feel warm like this; not when he’s also attempting to nurse a somewhat hurting heart without letting his best friend know. Kuroo still watches him carefully, and Kei pointedly ignores the look in his eyes. It borders too close to something like fondness, soft and unassuming. 

“My brother found out I liked taking photos of hospital food. He bought me the camera as a graduation gift. Now I’m just making use of it, I guess.” 

Kuroo hums. They eat their cake in silence.

“When’d you take this one?” Kuroo asks, showing him a photo of him on the camera. Kei laughs quietly when he sees it. He knows the photo far too well; it had been one of his favorites, after all. It was Kuroo standing by their balcony, drinking tea, drowned in the afternoon light. If Kuroo looked any closer he’d realize the photo was a product of Kei’s yearning for a warmth so close but cannot hold.

“Last weekend.” 

“Why?” 

Why, indeed. Kei smiles wryly. “I wanted to take a photo of you.” 

Kuroo blinks at him in surprise. “Of me? Why me?” 

“Why not you?” 

“I don’t know,” Kuroo shrugs. “Because I’m me. I’m not much of a subject, I think.” 

“You’re my muse, Tetsurou.” Kei murmurs. He gulps down his coffee and it burns all the way down. It scorches his tongue and somehow, he finds the strength to look Kuroo in the eye. “That’s why.” 

(You’re my muse, he wants to say. In other words, I think sunsets look best when it basks you in its light. In other words, finding something to photograph is as easy as loving you. In other words, there are lines I know I cannot cross. I only hope photos, as flimsy as they are, can traverse those. In other words, I see you.)

Kuroo diverts his gaze and turns it outside. It has started to rain, and Kei strains to hear the soft music in the bistro over the downpour. They’d get drenched before they even reach the train station, later. Kei wishes he still had coffee to swallow. He settles for cake, and he chews, and chews, and chews. 

He chews for ten minutes. 

“Can you send the photo to me?” Kuroo asks. Of course, Kei says, and goes back to chewing. He glances at Kuroo and instead of disdain there is a gentle smile, lips curved. It is a kindness, one he has always known from Kuroo. The rain is letting up, but they’d still get drenched, later, on their way home. For now, Kuroo is his; Kei claims this moment selfishly. 

“You know, Kei, when you want me to, I’ll always smile for you.” It is an offer. He knows he is Kei's muse, after all.

Ah, Kei thinks, I’ve wanted to hear this before. Is there a way to say it, he muses, that hurts less? Of course. It’s just not one he’s meant to hear, that’s all. It feels like a loss. 

“Thank you.” He says. 

Kuroo passes him his camera back, and gets up to leave. Like always, he follows. Under the downpour, they head home.

3\. 

Kei calls him at three in the morning, drunk. The call rouses Kuroo from a heavy sleep, and in the haze of waking up, he makes out a muffled version of Frank Ocean’s Godspeed from Kei’s end of the line. Stay there, he says, I’ll walk you home. He stumbles out of his bed and slips into a thick hoodie. He passes by Kei’s room and grabs one lying on the floor, and heads into the cold night. 

Miya Atsumu was known on campus for his parties. It was not so much a party as it was a simping session, because all they did in Miya’s tiny college apartment was listen to Frank Ocean and drink while lamenting their broken hearts. Kuroo knows this because freshman year wasn’t so long ago that he’d forgotten what it felt like to sit in an empty tub and long for someone four hundred and twenty seven kilometers away.

Kuroo had, at some point, longed for Tsukishima Kei. 

(This was a truth fundamentally accepted by everyone in his life, except for him.)

Kuroo finds his way to Atsumu’s apartment easily. It was a twenty minute walk from their apartment, fifteen if he passed by the creepy playground instead of the main road. This gives him too little time to figure out why he’s there, about to knock on the door, to pick up Tsukishima Kei. This gives him too much time to relive the visceral want he had choked down, many semesters ago. 

He knocks and Atsumu lets him in. Iwaizumi waves at him from one of the couches. He heads straight to the bathroom, and it feels almost like marching into something unknown, a burden of his expectations. Frank Ocean echoes throughout the apartment, and Kuroo wants to tear the entire room apart with his bare hands. 

It is a pathetic irony, he thinks, when he finds Kei sitting in the tub, a bottle of soju hanging loosely from his grasp. Kei lifts his head to look at him and closes his eyes. Kuroo closes the door behind him and sits by the edge of the tub. He finishes the rest of Kei’s drink and it slides down his throat smoothly, sweet on his tongue. In his belly it rests warm. 

“Kei.”

“Tetsurou.” 

He hands Kei the hoodie he brought wordlessly. Their fingers touch and the entire bathroom reeks of intimacy, and with the way Kei looks at him he feels it dripping over his face and arms and hands, everything exposed to the presence that is Tsukishima Kei. The lighting in the bathroom is a shitty orange and Kuroo finds himself wanting nothing more but to touch. He still can’t find the courage to look Kei in the eye. 

“You’re drunk, aren’t you.” 

“I am,” Kei murmurs, but he opens another bottle of soju, probably from the stash in the tub, and promptly drinks half of its contents in one go. “Just not drunk enough yet.” 

He passes Kuroo an unopened bottle. “It’s grapefruit. That’s your favorite flavor, right?” 

Kuroo stares at the bottle in his hand. It’s still cold and there’s water condensing on the outside of the glass, and if he squints he can see a reflection of him, which is nothing more than a coward. He opens the bottle and drinks. 

They drink until the music fades into a throb, like a second heartbeat. Kei still has his eyes closed, head resting on the tiled wall, neck long. Bared. In another life Kuroo would’ve seen it as a taunt, but in this one it just reminds him of the vulnerability he never found the guts to share with Kei. Daniel Caesar plays and it slips in between the cracks of their tiny bathroom space, and by god, Kuroo should clench his fist before he gets any more tempted to hold Kei’s hand. 

“You grew out your hair,” he says. Kei cracks open an eye to look at him briefly. 

“I like it long.” He shakes his head, as if to make a point. The curls fall softly on his forehead and temples and over his eyes. 

“It looks good on you.” Kuroo says, appreciatively. (But mostly he is surprised. He hadn’t noticed it.) Kei closes his eyes and sinks further into the tub, laying his head on the edge. His neck is still bared to Kuroo, and to him it sounds like _“can you bare yourself, too?”_

The longer Kuroo stares the more he realizes this is a Tsukishima Kei so far removed from him he was virtually a stranger. The thought is a sucker punch in the gut, like Kingkong decided to climb not the Empire State Building but his insides and started to stomp on it in full kindergarten fashion. There are planes on Kei’s face that he doesn’t recognize; ones that he would’ve memorized in a glance, semesters ago. When had he stopped looking at Tsukishima Kei? 

He stares at Tsukishima Kei and while he is eating himself alive with some form of shame, there is also the lingering taste of marvel. You do not forget what it feels like to bask in a presence that used to be home. You do not forget what it feels like to bask in a presence so far admired you had drawn the line between mortal and deity. This, at some point, he knew as falling in love. 

“Why are you staring.” Kei says. It is not a question but a statement, unspoken. 

(Why are you only staring now, Tetsurou?)

There are excuses he’d like to say. You have sweat dripping down your temple even though it's cold enough here to hold your hand. Your hands are shaking. You look like you’re about to have a stiff neck for the next week and a half. You’re looking at me the way I looked at you so many months ago. You just finished three bottles of soju in half an hour, don’t you think it’s too much? You’re too much. You’re too _much._ Instead he says:

“I want to look at you.” 

Tsukishima opens his eyes and looks at him. “Okay.” 

“You’re not going to tell me off?” 

He laughs. He shrugs on his hoodie and sits up straighter in the tub, resting his head against the wall instead of the edge. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, Tetsurou. I’m not going to complain now.” 

Kuroo leans forward. It is a moment insurmountable. Kuroo breathes. It does not fade. Kei opens his eyes, and for the first time in a while, Kuroo does not look away. He sees sheer want and it punctures a dream he has covered gingerly in bubble wrap. To look away is a loss. Kuroo stares.

He reaches out to brush the curls off Kei’s forehead, and he tucks this gently behind his ear. Kei does not lean forward into his hand. He does not flinch. He simply is, and _god_ , the stench of alcohol and want lingers in every breath Kuroo takes. 

“Let's go home, Kei.” 

Kei steps out of the tub. He ignores the hand offered to him, moving in the space in between Kuroo and the wall. He opens the door and sends a glance behind his shoulder, to Kuroo sitting on the edge of the tub. He smiles. 

Kuroo exhales. 

When they step out, the night is colder than when Kuroo went to the apartment. There’s a few hours until sunrise and he watches Kei march on, one step at a time, as if he didn’t drink half a case in approximately an evening and a half. He jogs a bit to catch up to Kei. He wants to touch, so he does. Kei does not shrug off the arm Kuroo has slung over his shoulder, nor does he curl closer into it. They walk together. 

“Have you eaten yet?” He asks. 

“No.” Kei says.

“Let’s buy ramen.” Kuroo holds Kei’s wrist and ignores the fluttering pulse beneath his palm. In his mind they’re playing a stupid game of charades. This round they play a couple, chasing the night away, love in between. Except instead of hands he is holding a wrist, the closest to intimate touch he’d ever be allowed to reach. 

(Except this is a charade, and it's not Tsukishima Kei that he's in love with, anyway.)

He drags him to the nearest Lawson store, lights bright, almost blinding. He lets Kei pick noodles for them both while he settles in the tables beside the window. 

“Do you want the spicy one?” Kei asks, sitting on the empty seat beside him. He places a steaming bowl in front of Kuroo and passes him a pair of chopsticks. They say their thanks. If Kuroo looked at them from the outside, right now, would they look like a couple? He tries not to think about it. 

“Why’d you drink at Miya’s?” Kuroo asks. 

“Just had a bad week, that’s all.” 

“You could’ve told me. We could’ve drank together.” Kei laughs. Oh, he laughs, and it sounds like a mockery. He lapses into silence and shoves noodles into his mouth. 

“Do you want some?” Kuroo offers his, after some time. Kei doesn’t say anything, but Kuroo twirls noodles around his chopsticks anyway, and raises it to Kei’s mouth. His lips wrap around the noodles and drags on the chopsticks. He stares into Kuroo’s eyes. The taste of fake pork broth rots on Kuroo’s tongue--- in place of it, something deeper, carnal and intimate. He does not recognize it. 

Kei raises his hand to Kuroo’s cheek, and he forgets to breathe. In their space a piece of his heart shatters, and he finds that he does not mind. It is Tsukishima Kei. Once, he'd given him everything. Kei wipes off the stain on the edge of his lips with his sleeve. The cotton drags on his skin, unbelievably soft. 

“Thanks.” They eat in silence. The fluorescent lights flicker above them. Kuroo thinks Kei looks wonderful like this: soft corners, reverent in the quiet, a moment stolen out of a dream. The ruin of it starts off like this: 

“You’re in love with me, aren’t you, Kei.” (Kuroo says this with the grace of a gospel reading.)

“I’m not.” (Kei replies, with all the detachment of an agnostic church lector.)

“You’re in love with me. I’m breaking your heart right now, aren’t I?” 

“No, Tetsurou.” Kei turns in his seat, faces him. Jaw unclenched, a smile gentle on his lips. Angelic. Kuroo was never selfless enough to have martyred himself like this. “I’m not in love with you.” 

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Kei?” 

“You don’t have to beat yourself up, Tetsurou,” he whispers. “I’m not in love with you.” 

Kuroo recoils, powerless in the face of deliverance. That was the whole point of it, wasn’t it? He picked up Kei from Miya’s because he knew he’d be the reason for _this_. He wanted a confrontation. He wanted tears. He wanted to apologize and absolve himself of the longing, regardless of Kei’s heart. 

That’s all there is to it.

_(But why is there a lump in his throat, why can’t he swallow it down, why does he still want to hold Kei’s hand, why does Kei still look beautiful like this?)_

“I want to know something, though.” Kei murmurs, still watching him. “What exactly do I mean to you, Tetsurou?” 

Ah. I loved you once, Kei, he thinks. It is not so easy to let go. Do you think I know if I still do?

“At one point,” Kuroo says, honestly. “Everything.” 

Something like defeat flashes in Kei’s eyes. Kuroo barely catches it before he closes them, and exhales. The truth was longing was not so much a war as it was a barely fought struggle. Kei, between the two of them, had always known when to give up. 

(Somehow, it stings to be on the receiving end of it.)

“We should go,” Kei gets up, “It’ll be sunrise soon.” He picks up his trash and throws it to the bin he passes. He leaves Kuroo sitting by the tables and walks out the door, hands buried in pockets. It’s a cold night, after all. 

Kuroo finds it hard to follow. Kei had always looked back, before. 

4\. 

Kei cooks them breakfast. It’s a habit he picked up a semester and a half ago, when Kuroo started reviewing for the medical technologist licensure exam. He hums as he fries the eggs and fish, boiling miso soup on the side. This is domesticity without all of the unnamed labels attached to it; this makes Kuroo’s heart stagger much like their broken ceiling fan, and he still doesn’t know why. 

Kuroo watches him from their wobbly IKEA table, marked with the benzene rings and steroids they carved into it last summer, drunk on cheap vodka. Kuroo thinks he can simply fade like this: with the morning sun gentle on his face, coffee sweet, without all the responsibilities of an unemployed graduate trying to get a license. He gets up to carry his share of the breakfast. Kei has drawn a dick on his fried egg with ketchup. 

“I’m moving out next semester.” Kei says, as he settles in the seat across Kuroo. Their knees touch. He drops this announcement to Kuroo like a present, which is to say very gently but without the barest shred of a fuck. 

“What?” 

“I’m moving out,” he repeats. “I want to start saving up for my master’s.” Kei shoves more rice into his mouth, glancing over his watch to check the time. 

Are you fucking kidding me, Kuroo thinks. Except he doesn’t think it as much as he actually says it out loud. 

“No, I am not kidding you, Tetsurou.” 

“But why?” Kuroo is not a stranger to absence, but he has never felt it more tangible than now, with his knee pressed against the cold wall and Kei’s. 

Kei shrugs. “Tsumu’s roommate graduated, apparently. He offered it to me. Rent is cheaper there, since we’re sharing with two more people.”

Kuroo has the self-preservation equivalent of that of a goldfish’s, in other words, a lot, but perhaps not enough to stop himself from saying the biggest curveball of his life. He grabs another bowl of rice and shovels it into his mouth. He chokes on a fish bone. 

“Can’t you stay, Kei?” 

Kuroo, sadly, is not as smart as a goldfish. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. For all of the synthesis pathways he memorized in high school, Kuroo Tetsurou never learned to ask the right questions. It was not a matter of asking Tsukishima to stay, after all--- but when the _hell_ did everything go so wrong, that Kei moving to a place fifteen minutes away felt like a permanent departure to him?

“I can,” Kei allows, nodding. He picks at his fish. His eyes are glazed over, like he’s thinking of a place better than this. “I just don’t think I want to, anymore.” 

Kuroo feels something in his brain fade. It was not so much fading than it was the popping of metaphorical bubble wraps inside his mind, which held every single grain of his yearning and almost pitiful admiration. Can I have your eggs, he says instead, and marvels in amazement at how Kei simultaneously breaks and fixes his heart as he places overcooked scrambled eggs on top of Kuroo’s rice with a bare smile. 

Funnily enough, the sucker punch did not hurt. Kuroo’s phone rings and he remembers he has practice to attend today and laboratories to visit. Something about experience being the best teacher. Kei stands up and gathers their utensils as Kuroo defaults to autopilot, rushing to his room to grab his bag and laptop and laboratory goggles. 

“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, you know,” Kei calls out, before he leaves. Kuroo stays right beside the door. If this is your way of telling me to keep you here, he thinks, say it again. 

“Probably next month, give or take,” he continues. “I’m still going to keep in touch with you, anyway. Don’t worry about it, Tetsurou.” 

Kuroo clenches his hands into fists. The thing with heartbreak like this is that it registers gently, like wind. You force yourself to acknowledge it, and by doing so, you put yourself at its mercy. 

“Of course, Kei,” he manages to say. He is about to be five minutes late, ten if he waited a few more seconds for a miracle. “I’ll see you later?” 

“Yeah, I’ll be here.” 

_How merciful it is_ , Kuroo will later think, on his way home, _to come home to you, Kei_. 

  
  


4.5 

You are twenty-something, dreaming of a life bigger than this. You do not know what that life is, but for now it is a master’s degree in pharmaceutical sciences and biochemistry from San Diego. You are standing in the middle of an airport, three in the morning, and your only witness is Kuroo Tetsurou, best friend turned unrequited love turned stranger turned chauffeur. 

“Thanks for bringing me here,” you say. Are you still in love with him?

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, hides a yawn. There are two answers: yes, and yes with reservations. You answer something else. 

Kuroo waves it off. “Anything for you, Kei.” 

Your flight number is called. You wonder if leaving and yes are synonyms. You are not sure, but you have come to realize two things: that you have always forgiven Kuroo for breaking your heart, and that leaving did not necessarily mean giving up. 

“Don’t be a stranger, Tetsurou.” You say, as a goodbye. Kuroo smiles. You pass him by, and very gently, your hands touch. It is a promise, you think--- you’ll come back, and when you look over your shoulder and meet his eyes, you know he understands. 

It is a promise, words not enough to encompass. 

5.

Kei returns to Japan on a Wednesday morning. It does not feel like coming home, despite Yamaguchi’s careful planning of his homecoming entourage at the airport arrivals. Home, after all, was not a place--- it never was, to him. Home is the roots keeping him planted on the ground, and right now, all he wanted to do was drift away. 

In the end, he meets Kuroo at their favorite restaurant, which has grown impressively. Kuroo had called him that morning and asked for a meeting. Kei clarified if it was a date. They agreed it was still the same difference. He arrives somewhat late, and he sits in his car for a good fifteen minutes trying to come up with an excuse better than _I had to feed my cat_ because of a monster of anxiety stomping away at his chest. He ends up heaving. 

When he musters up the courage to go inside the bistro, Kuroo meets him halfway. His hand is warm on his wrist. They sit at their table, and with a deep breath Kei allows himself to look. 

“Hey.” 

Kuroo has changed. His eyes are somber in the terrible restaurant lighting, smile harsher than Kei has known. A stranger, but not quite so; he reminds Kei of the pages he has read once, but not again. He wonders if he looks the same to him. 

“Hey, Tetsurou.” 

“I ordered for you.” Kuroo says this quietly, almost tender. “You like the shrimp scampi, right?” 

The thing with memories is that they, like most things, are impermanent. Kei does not remember liking shrimp scampi in the last four years of his life (he had grown fond of _cacio e pepe_ from the Italian pop-up restaurant near his dorms), but it almost feels tragic to say otherwise. Kei nods, and knows he made the right choice when Kuroo beams at him. Kuroo’s presence, like most memories, have always been impermanent. Perhaps the only thing he truly remembers is the fact that Kuroo is the sun. Kei turns away, and faces something else. 

“You can look at me, you know,” Kuroo laughs. “I’m not going to bite, Tsukki.” 

Kei gives himself five minutes to map out an old home. He traces his gaze from the table upwards: from Kuroo’s hands, curled softly into fists on top of the table; the length of his forearms; the strait of his neck; the planes of his face; the warmth in his eyes. By the end of the self-imposed timer of doom, Kei finds himself happy with a conclusion. Watching Kuroo is not, in the end, coming home. He is not home, but all the roads that lead to it. 

“Thanks for ordering for me, Tetsurou.” He says. It sounds like an apology. “How have you been?” A peace offering, an invitation. 

Kuroo smiles, and talks. He’s working at a wonderful hospital, with great benefits and research opportunities. The white lab coat is rewarding, but honestly a bother to clean. He lives in a one bedroom apartment, has a house rabbit the size of a volleyball, and teaches dance to elementary school kids every Sunday. He’s been learning how to cook, but the most he can do is curry and miso soup. He misses Kei, sometimes, especially when he gets drunk alone on Friday nights, but he’s proud of him, too.

Life has been good, he says.

Their waiter arrives with their food, and they wave their thanks. Kuroo dives in his pasta with all the grace of his college self, which is to say, not a lot. Kei finds it endearing, and this time he doesn’t stop himself from wiping the sauce that splatters all over Kuroo’s tacky jacket and cheeks. Kei places shrimp on Kuroo’s plate. 

“I’m surprised you still dance,” he says, biting into an overcooked shrimp. 

“I’m not that good anymore,” Kuroo admits, “But it’s always been fun. The lessons are fun too, with the kids. It’s not the same kind of dancing as before, but still as good, I suppose.” 

Kei hums. He reaches for the piece of chicken on the edge of Kuroo’s plate, set there purposefully for him. “Invite me sometime, I’ll cover a session.” 

“Still into photography?” Kuroo barely sounds surprised. He gives another slice of chicken breast to Kei. 

“Our school had a good org for it.” Kei shrugs. “It’s always been fun.” 

They eat the rest of their meal in silence, one that settles over them tenderly. With every swallow of shrimp scampi Kei attempts to bring down with it his inexplicable want to hold Kuroo’s hand. It’s almost funny how fickle memories are; in the end, yearning is something much more primal than memories. When all of it fades into a blurred film of events, what remains is the yearning of the heart. Kei wants to laugh. As it turns out, four years and an ocean in between does not erase a want that runs deep. They finish their meal. 

Tsukishima Kei, twenty-something almost thirty, is breathless. And captivated. And remarkably, does not faint with the acceptance of defeat. He is, despite all the running away, still Kuroo’s. Defeat has never tasted so sweet before. 

“Can I hold your hand, Kei?” 

Kei blinks. “What?” 

“Can I hold your hand,” Kuroo repeats. Hand outstretched. 

“Why?” 

“Because I want to,” he says plainly. “Four years ago I wasn’t so sure. But now I am. So can I hold your hand?” 

Kei offers his right hand and tries not to gape when Kuroo threads his fingers in between his. His fingers are shaking. There is a deliberate care with the way Kuroo’s thumb traces over the back of his hand. A gentleness Kei had once known, a long time ago. He feels his pulse slow down to a steady rhythm. The smile on Kuroo’s face is the final punch, and Kei thinks he’s finally done running away. 

(Some time ago, he promised he’d come back. It was not so much a promise but a silent prayer that he’d find something worth returning to. Something that didn’t break his heart. Perhaps the realization that he would have come back, regardless of heartbreak, makes everything much more worthwhile. Kuroo Tetsurou, after all, was not home. He was an IKEA sign turned neon pink and green, a statue running down the highway, a best friend turned unrequited love turned stranger turned chauffeur; he was, precisely, everything Kei had ever wanted.) 

“You know, Tetsurou,” Kei starts, “I didn’t think we’d end up like this.” 

Kuroo shrugs. “Me neither.” He holds his hand tighter. He does not let go. “Thanks for coming back, Kei.” 

“I didn’t come back for you, though.” 

“That’s fine.” Kuroo says. He traces Kei’s knuckles softly. “Thank you, anyway.” 

The barista behind the counter calls out a name. There is jazz music playing in the bistro, and for all the mess there is, Kei finds himself letting go. There was no other explanation for this, he supposes, except for the course of time and all the paths that lead to it. The bistro breathes, and with it he does too. 

Between the two of them, it has always been infinite; Kuroo smiles, and when Kei meets his gaze, he allows himself to drown in the unbridled want. This time, no holds barred. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> #044. really enjoyed writing this so much bc krtsk is rly a comfort ship! the prompt called for side-kuroo ship but i cant write anything too reminiscent of cheating T^T i hope u guys enjoyed this ! based on fight or flight by conan gray :)
> 
> thank you so much mods for handling the event!


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